


the only thing that's real

by trevino



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: (but if billy didn't die), Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, M/M, Post-Canon, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:21:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27220396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trevino/pseuds/trevino
Summary: if i could start again, a million miles awayi will keep myselfi would find a way(or, billy survives. it's a miracle, but like all good stories of sainthood, he's never quite the same afterwards.steve's there to pick up the pieces, in his own way.)
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Kudos: 56





	the only thing that's real

**Author's Note:**

> title taken from "hurt" by johnny cash, but i encourage you to listen to the eric whitacre version of this song while you read the fic!
> 
> i've wanted to write a piece about Billy's scars for a while. i've seen a few different interpretations of what they look/feel like, but i wanted to insert my own into the world.  
> this is just a one-shot, but if you really like it, i might turn it into some sort of series!
> 
> as always i love comments:)

Billy Hargrove likes his scars.

He’s proud of them, the way they form a map, a timeline, the legacy of every fight he’s entered and won. Of every time his father beat him to a pulp, roughed him up real bad, and he survived. Of persevering, of being the kind of man he hopes his mother would be proud of, wherever she is.

His scars tell a story, shape a narrative in which he’s not weak, not small, not destroyed by misery and memory. It’s better than any words he could string together.

He’s proud of his scars.

Except, when all they do is remind him that he nearly died, _should’ve_ died, and now there’s not much left for him in this god-forsaken town. All it gave him was heartbreak and a constellation of burning red scars that hurt when he touches them, hurt when he looks at them in the mirror, hurt when he even remembers they’re there.

It’s hard to like the thing that destroyed you, especially when you wish it had.

~

Steve Harrington isn’t the smartest person around, or the most perceptive either, but he gets lucky every once in a while, and somehow, that’s today.

He notices it, and if he notices it, then he’s probably not the only one who has. 

It’s been five weeks since Billy Hargrove was released from the hospital, and nearly seven weeks total since that night at the Starcourt Mall. Things aren’t back to normal— not like Hawkins, Indiana has much of a “normal” to consider, after all— but they’re starting to settle down, at least. The rugrats are back in school, Steve’s finally enjoying his job at the Family Video store, so he doesn’t run into Billy much, though they’ve shared a few morning breakfasts at the diner in recent weeks. After all, neither one of them has much else to do.

And in that time, he’s never seen Billy in anything less than a short-sleeved shirt, buttoned all the way up to the collar, and his signature leather jacket, which is a bit worse for wear given the events of the summer. His necklace— St. Christopher, or something like that— still hangs around his neck, but most days, Steve can only see the chain, as the pendant is often tucked below his shirt.

It’s weird, seeing Billy like this.

First of all, it’s Hawkins, so it doesn’t get warm enough for a jacket until early October, certainly not during mid-August like it is now. And Billy’s from California, sure, but he’s been here long enough to adjust to the weird temperature fluctuations of Indiana.

Second, Billy Hargrove has never— _never_ , not ever, not as long as Steve’s known him in an acquaintance-like fashion— been one for covering up. No, even in the middle of November, Billy can usually be found with an open shirt, barely buttoned to cover his abs, and tank tops aren’t exactly out of the question either. The kid loves to show a little skin (or a lot of it, frankly), and it’s probably due to the sheer amount of attention he gets from the Hawkins girls. They’re not used to seeing anyone with as golden-perfect skin as Billy.

(Steve notes, though, that he’s certainly not like all those Hawkins girls who can’t help but stare. He’s simply making an observation, right?)

So today, as they’re sitting across from each other on a Friday afternoon in the booths of the town’s second-shittiest diner (there’s only two diners in Hawkins, though, so it’s not a particularly impressive statistic), waiting for the kids to finish up at the arcade, Steve makes a mental note.

Seven weeks since Billy was nearly ripped to shreds by the Mind Flayer.

Seven weeks since Billy nearly died, and Steve cradled his head in his hands as Robin rushed them to the hospital.

Seven weeks since Billy miraculously survived, against all odds.

Seven weeks since any bit of his golden skin has seen the sun.

Steve wonders if it means anything.

Most likely, it means everything.

It’s not like he can just _ask_ , though. He and Billy are friends, maybe, something like that— but he probably wouldn’t ask Nancy why she was dressing differently, so it’s not like he’s on that level with Billy either.

He keeps his mouth shut.

And though he’s not particularly good at it, not a little sleuth-in-the-making like Dustin or Lucas or any of the other kids he spends his afternoons carting around (he’s not a chauffeur, but damn, sometimes it really feels like it)—

He watches. 

  
Waits.

Hopes (against all reason, against the voice in his head telling him “you’re stupid, you’re overdramatic, you’re making a big deal out of nothing, and Billy will probably punch you if you even breathe a word of this out loud”) maybe, just maybe, Billy will choose to trust him. He imagines it’ll feel something like the first dip into a pool at the start of summer, warm and too-cold all at once, but he’d like to find out.

Maybe, he’ll get an answer to all the questions he’s been biting his tongue on.

~

Time passes, as it is wont to do.

They meet for brunch more and more, or for after-school meals of fries and soda bottles, and they stop using the excuse of their siblings (step or surrogate, it doesn’t really matter anymore) to hang out with each other.

After a while, it’s just Steve and Billy.

Billy and Steve.

Friends, even though neither one of them has said the word aloud. It’s just sort of an understanding between them. Steve lost something that night, the last shred of hope that his teenage years would be anything close to normal.

And Billy?

Well, Billy lost everything.

So it helps, at least a little, to have someone else who feels the way he does. Like the universe is turned upside down, pulling him in every direction, and he’s just along for a ride he wishes he could get off of.

He can’t, though, and neither can Steve, so they grin and bear it, together.

Steve doesn’t forget, though. He just makes more mental notes of it, files his thoughts into little categories in his head, and waits. It’s October now, only a week until Halloween (which he couldn’t forget about even if he tried; Dustin would never allow it), so he takes a swig out of his beer, places it on his coffee table next to his sock-covered feet, and opens his mouth.

“Hey, Billy?”

The other boy looks up, beer still gripped in his ever-so-slightly shaking hand. That’s something that hasn’t faded, not since the night at Starcourt. It’s subsided a little, but it never really went away completely. (The doctors said that was a normal side effect of the trauma Billy had experienced. Billy said it was bullshit. Just the universe fucking him over once again.)

“What’s up, Harrington?” He still mostly only uses Steve’s last name, but he’s said his first name more and more lately, though it sounds a little foreign out of his mouth.

“Can I ask you something?” Steve’s nervous, now, at the thought of stumbling through his words and fucking this up, somehow. It’s precarious, still, the friendship formed between them. Not as much so as before, after all, since they’re sitting in his living room drinking beers on a Saturday night. (Neither one of them had any plans; they never do, anymore, what with being out of high school and having a rare off-weekend at the same time.)

“You kinda already did, pretty boy.”

There’s the Billy Hargrove wit, the one he’s come to know and love. (Steve thanks God, or whoever’s up there, that that didn’t get ripped out of him when he nearly died. Billy probably wouldn’t be Billy without it.)

“It’s uh, about your chest.”

“Oh, someone tryna feel me up?”

“Shut it, Hargrove, I’m being serious here,” Steve implores, meeting his eyes. Billy’s seemed to realize that, as he sets his beer down besides Steve’s— his hands are trembling more, as a reaction to Steve’s more intense tone.

“I meant, uh, I don’t know how to ask this,” Steve stutters. “But, not to be weird or anything, but you haven’t looked like yourself since… since Starcourt. I mean, you’re dressing differently, I only know you’re still wearing that necklace because I see the chain sometimes, I don’t know, it’s kinda weird... “

He trails off, dodging the eye contact Billy’s striving for on the couch beside him.

“You want to know why I don’t show off my scars.”

Damn, if Steve had known that Billy would’ve figured it out immediately, he might not have been so nervous. (Or he would’ve been more so. Not sure.)

“Yes,” Steve confirms, taking a swig out of his beer and hoping it instills him with even an ounce more confidence than he’s got. “Not to be a perv or anything, but, uh. It’s kind of weird, seeing you dressed like this. Like, after our fight last year, you practically pranced around, showing off the bruises and your split lip.”

“Yeah…” Billy mutters, rubbing a finger against his jawline absently. Steve certainly hadn’t won that fight, not by a long shot, but Billy hadn’t come away cleanly either. (Aided, of course, by the bruises his father had left on him that day as well.)

“I’m sorry, man, I shouldn’t have mentioned it, I’m just a moron,” Steve says. This was a mistake, right? Bringing this up to Billy. They were finally getting along, finally at some sort of peace with each other, and Steve and his big mouth just had to ruin it.

“Shut up, Steve,” Billy replies, but there’s no real bite hiding behind his words. “You wanna know why I don’t rock the open shirts anymore? Why I’m not flaunting this body for the _ladies_?”

Before Steve can say anything— even though he’s not entirely sure _what_ he could say, really— Billy has stood up, hovering in front of him. His hands are really shaking now, and Steve wants to reach out and grab them, to stabilize him. Just to give him something to hold onto.

And then Billy’s shrugging off his leather jacket, and unbuttoning the deep red short sleeve shirt that he’s wearing. Button by button, bit by bit, the shirt comes off, and then he’s there, torso bare, in front of Steve.

He’s _beautiful_.

That’s the first thought in Steve’s head, almost unwittingly. He’s not sure where the words came from exactly, but they certainly fit.

Billy’s chest is covered with razor-thin scars, almost like tree branches on the ancient sycamore in Steve’s backyard. They fan out from the center of his chest, right at the apex of his ribcage, and they stretch up towards his neck and low, lower, below the waist of his dark blue jeans. Steve is itching to stand up, to touch, to _feel_. He wonders if they’re raised, or if they sink into the skin, if they’re cold or if they radiate the same heat that Billy’s so known for. 

He realizes, though, that he’s been staring at Billy, mouth slightly agape, for far too many seconds to be considered normal, and Billy’s got a look on his face that he can’t quite understand.

“Holy shit,” Steve settles for, though it’s barely more than an exhaling breath. 

“Man, fuck you, I knew this was stupid, I’m out of here,” Billy’s tripping over his words now, just like Steve only minutes ago, and trying to gather up the clothing he’s just shed. Steve feels frozen to the couch, now, barely able to move.

But he doesn’t have much of a choice, now that Billy’s about to leave. Not like this.

Steve stands up, steps far closer to Billy than he ordinarily would (personal space and all that, plus Steve’s not too fond of getting in Billy’s punching distance when he’s like this), and reaches an arm out, just to graze at the side of Billy’s chest.

“Stay.”

It’s one word, and it doesn’t say nearly as much as he’d like it to, but it’s something.

Billy looks at him incredulously, searching for something, anything, in his eyes, and something seems to spark for him, because he nods his head and sits back down, not before putting his jacket back on. It hangs open, though, as he and Steve sit together once again.

“I, uh,” Steve starts. “I wasn’t saying you were ugly, or gross, or whatever, Bills.”

“You didn’t have to say it, man, I know you’re thinking it.”

“No, Bills, I’m not.” Steve says firmly. “I, uh….”

He fades off again.

Summons one deep breath.

And jumps off the deep end.

“I think they’re beautiful, Billy, your scars. I think you’re beautiful. I’ve been wanting to ask for, I don’t know, since you got out of the hospital, what they look like, since you’re always showing off your scars, and I don’t know if it’s a kink or if I just think you’re really pretty or what but _damn_ I just had to see them, I’m sorry, this was weird, you can punch me if you’re freaked out, but I had to see—”

He’s cut off, now, not because he’s run out of words (certainly not. Steve could probably ramble for a lifetime if someone let him), but by Billy’s lips pressed against his own. Not forceful, not needy, just _there_. A warm presence, a reminder that he’s not alone.

And when he kisses him again, Steve moving slightly into Billy’s lap to reach his lips better, he runs a finger against the scars by Billy’s neck, the ones that exist right under the chain of his necklace, and Billy doesn’t pull away.

The scars are a reminder of everything bad, everything awful, everything that nearly destroyed him in Starcourt Mall only months ago.

With Steve’s hands against them, feather-light but _there_ , though. They're not just a memory of the bad. Some good came out of that night too, after all.

And though he'd rather forget the scars, forget the pain of it—

There's something worth holding onto too.


End file.
